


Rebirth

by Shiro_Ai



Series: Phoenix [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: A little, A one author endeavour, Adult Harry Potter, All of you know who dies, Apathetic Harry Potter, Baby Harry Potter, Character Death, Fix-It of Sorts, Gen, Just look at the characters friends, Light Angst, Master of Death Harry Potter, Mentions of other characters - Freeform, Minor bashing, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, So check them, Story is very slow, TRIGGER WARNINGS IN THE BEGINNING NOTES, Tags Are Hard, Time Travel, among other issues, but so is Harry, death is childish, implied PTSD, just slighty, lowkey philosophy, minor flashbacks, no beta we die like harry does in the books, technically, they are friends
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2020-11-24 12:58:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20908049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiro_Ai/pseuds/Shiro_Ai
Summary: Harry is reborn and has to share his body with his younger self. He will relive his entire life with an adults perspective along with hindsight whilst putting in effort to raise himself to have the childhood he never had. The story starts at the fateful night and goes on from there.This is a WIP so read at your own risk as updates are sporadic





	1. Prologue pt 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: None of the characters from the world of Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling are mine. This is just a wilful passion piece that would not even exist without the franchise. Rest assured this is purely entertainment and no profit has been gained from this work and it certainly does not presume to be in any way canonical.
> 
> That said, this is just me playing a game in another author’s ballpark. No infringement was intended. Ta and enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween 1981

It was just like any other night in Godric’s Hollow. Everything was smooth sailing and unassuming. Halloween dinner was filling and uneventful and Harry hadn't even fussed that evening. All was well and peaceful.

Too peaceful. 

Was a thought at the back of James Potter's head. But he shook it off. Who was he to look a gift horse in the mouth. Better not to voice that particular opinion aloud to Lily. Heaven knows she'll probably have at him for saying that, nerves as antsy as they are as each night crawls by. Instead, he conjures up little coloured clouds that wee Harry takes to immediately, the toddler giggling with each attempt to grab at them. He could watch his beloved son's antics forever and he did just that. Which was why he didn't see the pair of red eyes glistening over his hedges. It was all so domestic and peaceful he wished it would never end. 

Soon he was getting lulled by his full stomach, as was little Harry, and Lily, brilliant as ever, took over. Feeling grateful, he laid back wand forgotten in between cushions in his lethargy and didn't hear the creak of the squeaky gate. The blast, however, the blasted blast, _that_ he heard. It had him scrambling to his feet, head swimming with the rush of blood to his head as he yelled, knowing it would be the last he could, to his beloved Lily to 'take Harry and go'. Green was the last thing he saw before his body crumpled to the ground, dead before he even reached it.

Lily heard everything. She heard the hollers of her beloved James. Then the hissed unforgivable. _Then the thump._ Her eyes prickled. Stricken, she dimly realised that she had nowhere to go. No way to run. Windows _too small_ to squeeze and _too high_ for an adult much less a toddler to fall from. Her wand was all the way in the kitchen too. Last used to dry the counters and plates—tears threatened to fall—forgotten near the stove. No way to escape. 

The swing of the door told her it was too late. So she bit her lip and put down her son. And stood between, unyielding. Then she was struck down.

Perhaps in another time little Harry would have looked on to the encounter with a kind of bright interest, thinking it was just another funny game. Maybe he would have cried when he realised that stranger was not his dada but was indeed stranger. This was not that time.

This Harry was not at all intrigued and neither did he weep. He did, however, simply watch on with pinched expression as if he just bit into a particularly sour lemon. 

Now Voldemort would have been befuddled to find that this boy was in fact _unusual_. But in his crusade to slay the same exact boy he hadn't registered it as odd. He thought of it more so as less of an annoyance.

And easily it was that he made to cut down the boy with his favourite curse and if there was a change in the universe, no one noticed. No one but little Harry.

"I did say we'd meet again when you passed.” Death stood, arms crossed, corners of his mouth twitching as if trying to hold back a grin. He was still in Harry's forty year old body only less indecently clad.

Harry—not all that little at all—agreed. 

"Huh. Funny to know that I did die the first time around."

"That you did Master. That you did."

"So. Missed me?"

"Yes and no."

"Har har, very funny."

“Just the way you like Master."

The toddler rolled his eyes.

"So, how did you feel about them." 

“Hum... Not much of a difference than before actually. I wouldn’t really know, don’t see the both of them together much." Tiny toddler arm attempted some semblance of crossing themselves.

"So far, whatever Sirius and Remus had told me were _true_, so there's that I guess. Really only just started to even see them for less than a year, much less get to know them… baby bodies sure are inconvenient huh."

Mort hummed.

“Well. They were responsible parents… well _Lily was_. Might—”

When he saw Mort raise his eyebrow, he elaborated.

“James and Sirius let me on that broom.”

“Anyways, I might mourn for them a little, maybe shed a few tears here and there about the idea of losing them but it's hard to really feel anything about them at this point.” He snuck a glance up at his counterpart and sighed. Looking Death straight in the eye, he said, “Look, I knew it was going to happen, _alright?_ Already made up about it decades ago.” He trailed. The silence hung in the still air as he flicked his eyes to the bright bolt of green stemming from the pale wand.

"Anyways this is more than a social call. I came to fix a minor issue Master."

“Hmm?"

Mort shakes his head and pinched at the bridge of his nose. “Fate, she screwed around a little. There's two souls in you body now and if you, Master. are going to be hosting that dreadful shard, we can't have that. And yes, Fate is sentient too, mine Master.”

Harry clicked his mouth shut. He could tell Mort wanted to move on from that topic so he does. Personally, he also didn’t want open that can of worms. Besides he could just find out when he returns to the afterlife after a fulfilling, well, life. So he just asks,

“Why not?"

"One word, Master. Explosion."

“How about we _just_ ignore the prophecy?"

We can’t. Fate personally ensured it. The two souls thing was her fault.” Mort let out a narked noise.

Harry just ponders a bit, ignoring the entity's whinging. 

“Does explain the baby-ish emotions."

"Are you sure that isn’t just you, Master?

Harry simply did his best impression of Snape’s unimpressed face. And wiped away the thought that followed.

"What do you need Mort?"

"Need to merge your souls, Master."

“But?” Green eyes narrowed.

“You might become more dormant. Original you will be, to put it simply, the pilot. Although, you may be able to influence things if you try hard enough. It was the best compromise I could get from her, Master."

"Doesn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of me coming back here?"

"I mean you _could_ still provide little you with a better childhood. You just have to live with your relatives until you are capable of self care."

Harry twitches at the thought.

"I suppose that parts inevitable innit?” he lets out a shaky sigh. _I really hadn’t thought it through properly have I._ Can’t believe I forgot I'll have to live with them for close to a decade. Well even if I can’t get out before I’m 11, after that should be fair game, shouldn't it. Yes and I'll _still_ have my knowledge and magic to protect little me. Alright, let's just do this.

“Ready, mine Master?"

“No, but just do it."

A bright light pulsed at the same moment the acid green killing curse hit. This soul merging spark only a tad lighter green in comparison and entirely missed by the Dark Lord as he melted to dust. The ominous rune carved itself into toddler Harry's forehead, sealing in the prophecy. One thick line of blood oozed from the only evidence of the Dark Lord's demise. Toddler Harry cried. Meanwhile another Harry was dazed by the sudden shift of souls and magic that washed over him. He was still trying to get used to the feeling of no longer being in control of the body that he almost missed the moment the Merlin forsaken shard latched onto the scar. It was an odd sensation. It did not hurt. Well, he was sure he probably had a splitting headache, hence the crying, but that wasn't what he meant. It felt a lot more like having a hole he didn’t know he had filled. With it back, he actually _felt complete_. Had he really lived with it so long that the shard was something he could miss even instinctually?

He filed that thought away for later. Instead, he wanted to assess if the shard would have influence on anything. Who knows if it actually did and Harry had simply been none the wiser. He was just about to delve deeper into that thought as little Harry's crying whittled down to sniffles but was swiftly interrupted when out of the corner of his eye he heard a faint rustling of feet on carpet.

It was soft but definitely drawing nearer.

When the person rounded the corner, it was the long locks that appeared first that shocked the memory into him. It was something he saw many many times years ago at Hogwarts. It was Severus Snape.

Oh, he looked so young. Skin supple and worry lines distinctly not formed and hair less greasy than it was shiny. Harry drank in every inch of the man before him, even as said man fell down against wall gasping in shock and grief and something else he remembers was guilt. He took in every detail. Of his once and future protector. _Of the dead man._ Harry could feel his eyes well up and he began to cry in earnest while Snape cradled his mother in his arms wailing. The irony was not lost on him on how he felt more about a man who hated him for most of their acquaintance than he did for his murdered parents. But bawl he did. And he _couldn't_ stop. _Even long after Snape had left._

He had worn himself to exhaustion. He could feel it. He was dizzy with need for sleep and he wonders briefly if it was because of his age or if it had more to do with the becoming dormant thing Mort mentioned.

It didn’t matter. He was out cold before he even heard the scuttling of a rat.


	2. Prologue pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the scene where Harry was dropped off on 4 Privet Drive.

It was dark when Harry woke. And silent. The biting chill of the November night unforgiving as it guarded the residences of Privet Drive. Families all tucked away in warm beds and duvets, fast asleep. All the porches were identical, windswept or not—all but number four. 

A tuff of black peeked out of the basket left outside the door. A baby lain wrapped in white muslin, nose and cheeks and little ears red from the frigid air. Cherubic face scrunched up as he dreamt of green flashes, red eyes and weeping mothers. 

Tiny lips wobbled as the chill grew too much.

The child cries. He cries as children would for their mother. He cries, looking for his mother’s comfort, not understanding that his mother was no more. 

Then he stops.

The memory clears and he calms, tear soaked lashes flutter. Bright green eyes—too calm yet all too weary—stared up at the door that shouldn't be familiar. Feeling consoled by the familiar hum in his forehead that shouldn't be there. 

Hadn't been there for so long.

It was _disconcerting_ to say the least. For Harry to feel warmth from the hum of the wretched thing wedged in his forehead. That, and well, still perceiving the other—little Harry—crying wailing and feeling as though he himself was doing so right then. 

“Odd. Mort didn’t mention that.” Harry thought aloud, though it had been more babbling than coherent. 

A cold gust of wind blew past and Harry shivered. _It was so cold! Why isn’t there a warming charm on him? Wasn't it wizards that dropped him off?_ He continued on a plethora of such thoughts until he remembered it had been McGonagall, Hagrid and _Dumbledore_ that left him here. Albus. Fucking. Dumbledore. The child endangerment _extraordinaire_ at his finest. 

It was ridiculous. He _is_ a toddler. He could just up and toddle off somewhere and no one would be the wiser. Naturally, that was the first thing he tried. But he couldn't. His tiny legs were too tightly bound and the basket so small it was actually numbing his feet so much so he couldn't kick loose of the fabric. Now isn't that just swell. He was about to continue on another no doubt long and miserly tirade to himself when another gust of wind came and he could not hold back the frankly adorable sneeze that erupted.

Nope, he thought. It’s way too cold for this. And he tried to pull what little cloth there was around his waist with his stubby little fingers only to hear a crinkle under the folds near his belly. ‘Hello, what’s this?’ Harry thought as he slowly wriggled the folded piece of something up and loose.

And that was the easiest part, what with it being tucked so near his tiny hands. He had to squirm a lot more to finally free his fingers into frigid winds. It took quite a few tries before he managed to flip the letter—or at least he thinks it is one—up for him to see the familiar curling lines stark on thin white paper. _Petunia Dursley_, it read, along with the full address listed below. Funny it was there really, he mused, since it was tucked so securely into his basket and _definitely_ hand delivered. Clumsily, he pried it apart to read what it said. After all, he was curious as to why exactly his Aunt had chosen to keep him—aside from the nonsense drivel she fed him for all those years.

But what Harry read made him _apoplectic_ with rage.

Even if he were to not take into account the abysmally detailed description of his parents state of being, the thinly veiled threat of danger befalling the Dursley’s was already antagonising at best. However, the part that really took the bloody biscuit and so nearly made him shred the letter was the nonsense explanation of blood wards. It was so contradictory! Apparently, the spell that was cast will cause protective powers to emanate from his Aunt’s blood. That very same protection can somehow be extended to a whole bloody building just by ‘accepting him as one of your own’. Or, in said letter, moving the basket into the threshold the house by way of when she ‘took him in’.

Utter bollocks.

There can’t just be spells so arbitrary about something so consequential just floating about. Not to mention it was completely different from what the blasted old coot had told him in that office of his. He didn't know which was worse. The fact that it was a spell that likely did not exist or that his relatives were essentially being tricked into taking him in.

What’s more, he was pretty sure that blood magics are illegal. Something about needing proper mastery or some rot. He had personally arrested many amateur wizards for venturing into those territories. Hermione had a lot to say about them too. His traitorous mind added and his mouth dried at the thought. Suddenly the winds wasn’t the only thing that made him feel cold. 

Forcing himself to refocus on the letter, he found himself trained on the part where it noted that his Aunt had to accept him as ‘her own’. The way it was phrased made it seem as if it meant that, in his last life, there was at least one point in time by which Petunia did see him as one of her own. _Wonder what changed._

It was wilful thinking perhaps but it did make him feel much softer inside. It must have transferred even a little to little Harry, since the boy had been soothed from ragged sobs to small hiccuping sniffles. He felt hazy.

He let out a not-quite-snorting huff. The bitterness that invaded was not at all unwelcome, he was no stranger to denial after all . He almost wandered into contemplating whether Petunia ever lov—appreciated—him at all when he decided cut that train of thought short. Certainly not. Otherwise those years wouldn’t exist. Harry shook his head. There was no use worrying about it now when he can simply see for himself. Live through it himself. Again. 

He took one last deploring look at the offending paper and refolded it ineptly. 

‘The wards, fake or not, probably won’t work,’ He thought. ‘I will _never_ think of this place as my home.’

He stuffed the letter back where he found it, fingers thankful for the warmth the meagre cloth provided, the crinkle of paper rather lulling.

His eyes slipped closed. His head felt like it was stuffed full of soft cotton. How… Was this how it will feel like every time I…

Just like that, he was asleep. His previously interrupted need to investigate the shard completely forgotten once more by the untimely distraction.

The only evidence of oddity wiped clean as the young waif slumbered.

RBRBRB

This would be one way of looking at things. 

No one would know. That there was a man out of his time confronting the reality of needing to relive old horrors after uncovering betrayals. A typical cliche in short.

There is however another way of viewing it. More specifically another point of view.

It is undeniable that this night in itself was a traumatic occasion.

Yes. Whilst the appearance of the man-who-lived did managed to outwardly calm the newly dubbed boy-who-lived, the tot still remained trapped in the frightful terror that had occurred, as the man himself notes.

That moment, is the moment by which mummy fell down because of not-daddy and that not-daddy was, well, not daddy. It was a memory he will relive over and over. Even if he wouldn’t know what any of it meant until much, much later. 

The boy will cry and continue to cry until a sudden warmth settles on his shoulders and makes his chest flutter like there were a million butterfly wings tickling him. He would be soothed by that sensation as all babies do when they have a new and not at all bad thing to focus their attention on.

But for now, little Harry was warm. His face isn’t sore and he isn’t seeing anymore scary scenes. Even his forehead isn’t itchy anymore. He felt safe. Like he was in his mummy’s arms and so he fell asleep.


	3. Petunia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Petunia’s morning discovery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the books don't cover what happened when Harry was found by the Dursleys
> 
> This is technically still part of the prologue but it has a title :>

Come morning, Petunia was the first of three occupants of number four to rouse. She freshened up quickly, taking care to not make a sound lest she wake up her tired spouse. It was early. She had always been a light sleeper ever since she had her baby son. The same son of hers who had been fussing the whole of last night, causing them to turn in later than usual. With a long day ahead of him at his long and normal job at the drills company, her husband needed every wink of sleep he could get. To ensure that, she even went as far as tiptoeing about the room with only the slightest crack of the curtains to let as little of light through as possible.

She herself had barely a handful of hours of sleep, having let her husband turn in earlier while she stayed up to manage her boy. It took so terribly long for him to finally sleep, she remembered. A small headache was beginning to form as she did and she had seen the puffiness under her eyes in the loo mirror. But that was alright for Petunia. It was normal for children to fuss.

Off she headed downstairs, after gushing quietly at the door of her son’s nursery room beside theirs, and went about her normal morning routine of preparing for the various daily needs of her husband and son. 

Soon enough, the day's suit was ironed and a hearty breakfast of eggs and bacon was cooked to her satisfaction. All that was left was to wait for the coffee to drip and for both the milk and the papers to arrive. Which, according to the clock showing a quarter to seven, should be here in about fifteen and twenty minutes respectively. Everything was perfectly executed and that was good and normal as she was naught but a good and normal woman on a good and normal day.

Until it wasn’t.

She had made her way to the front door to set out the empty milk bottles—no use dawdling when all her chores were done at the moment—when she found on her doorstep _a sleeping toddler_. The. Sleeping. Toddler. She damn near screamed and dropped the handfuls of glass bottles she had, freezing in place slightly. It was her freakish sister and that freakish husband of her's spawn. She would recognise that wild nest of hair anywhere. It was practically the splitting image of that _fiend_. That, and he looked practically identical to the freakish moving picture that sat torn up forgotten wherever the rubbish goes.

Then she remembered that the milkman ought to be here soon and that meant the neighbours would be up and about as well. So she hurriedly set down the bottles, wincing slightly at their loud clink, and snatched up the basket of boy into her home.

She leaned against the cool wood of her normal white door, eyes wide and staring at nothing in particular. She hazarded a glance down and dimly realised the wicker handle was freezing through the woollen sleeves of her cardigan. That would mean that this boy had been out in the nippy weather for quite some time. Her suspicions were only confirmed when she found gleaming slivers of ice on the tips of the boy’s hair and a throughly pale face only coloured by the frostbitten cheeks, nose and ears. He could have been out for hours for all she knew and no matter how much resentment she held for her sister and her _associates_, no child should be treated as such. Is what she thought as she absently stroked the tot. And her fingers met a crinkling sound. She dug between the folds to find a letter cliched in the surprisingly strong grip of the tot but was broken out of her reverie by a short rap on the door behind her, thoroughly frightening her.

The milk! It was here. Which meant Vernon will be waking up soon. And there is the alarm. While she herself is reacting rather mildly to receiving this child, she frankly doubted her husband would be even a mite the same. Especially of the son of the man he hated ever since her sister's wedding and subsequent visit. Only god knows what the man would do having this sprung on him so early in the morning when he has a full day of work waiting for him.

Slipping the letter in her skirt pocket for later, she fumbled about looking for a place to hide the basket. She searched high and low for a spot only to return to the empty cupboard under the stairs that they never got around to making into one for shoes. She hesitated. It was a dingy spot. Dusty too. But the idea of looking again for someplace else was quickly dashed when she heard the creak of the upstairs bed that was followed by a groan and a muffled yawn. _Oh Lord._

She plopped the basket down as gently as her frantic hands allowed and shut the door, praying that the child would stay silent. She continued about to seem busy.

It was a while after that her husband thumped down the stairs, and sat ready for breakfast with papers in hand. Suddenly, a loud wail could be heard. She could feel her face drain and dry-swallowed when she saw the subtle droop of the pages out of the corner of her eye. Setting her husband’s plate down before him quickly she announced.

“I-I’ll go check on Diddykins.”

She rushed out, keeping a sharp ear on the kitchen. But soon she heard the sound of the papers being straightened. Good. 

Now that she was properly in the hallways, it was clear the cries were coming from upstairs. Relieved, she climbed the stairs to fuss and bring down her sweet boy for his morning milk.

Soon enough she was kissing her husband goodbye at the door the same way she did everyday whilst cradling her baby. Though, it wasn’t until she heard the sound of the old engine’s sputter fade in the distance that she finally let out the breath she was holding. She was so glad Vernon hadn’t the had time to bring that dreadful thing to maintenance. Wouldn’t be sure he was really gone, otherwise.

Diddykins had long since been asleep in her arms. He had knocked out the moment he was burped after filling his belly with milk. So she settled him into the crib in the living room to deal with the _other_ one.

And was she nervous. Tentatively, she opened the door to the dusty cupboard and picked out the wicker basket. Peeking at the still sleeping boy, she was glad to see that the boy had lost the deathly pale complexion he had over an hour ago. The blankets worked then. Or more just being inside with the heating. 

Her wandering feet brought her to the kitchens, where she set the basket of boy down on the dining table. Then it struck her. Goodness grief! How long has it been since the boy was fed? She jumped up from where she had just sat down to heat up more water for the milk mix. It was quick work and Petunia sat herself back down again in waiting, still slightly dazed. She wrung hands on her skirt and was reminded of the letter that she had tucked in her right pocket by its crackle.

Shaking her head a few time to clear her head, she slid out the folded piece of paper that had her name, among other miscellaneous things, emblazoned on it in large sailing script. One she could never forget. Albus Dumbledore. Already she was dreading the contents of the letter as Petunia remembered the likes of the sender. How _could_ she forget. After having been so condescendingly written down by a supposed adult much less educator when she was merely a naive girl.

While she wasn’t the brightest candle of the bunch—certainly incomparable to Lily—Petunia had some wit that told her that nothing good could be in this letter. But she braved that thought and unfolded it. She read it. _Oh, with horror_, she read it.

_Oh, God no. Christ, no. Poor Lily._ Petunia’s face twisted into a quiet sob. It was horrible. Her sister, lost to the hands of the madman. Her eyes flicked over to the boy in the basket, an instinctual thought flashed by so quickly she was stunned by her own cruelty. _Why didn't you die instead of her. If you’re here, won't the madman come!_

She grit her teeth. There was more to the letter. So she braved on. However, it was mere moments after that that the kettle whistled and she scrambled to get it off the cooker. Her mind reeled from what she read as she did.

It's a threat.

It’s definitely a threat. There’s no way it isn’t.

The magic activated the moment he entered my house by my hands. I ‘took him in’. She sucked in a deep breath. It might protect us now, but it also means if the boy ever left we—my precious Dudley—would be in danger. If that wasn’t a threat, I don’t know what is.

For the first time in the normal and uneventful life she had created for herself, Petunia was petrified of the ramifications of her decision. Had she been younger and more hateful, the boy would have already been left inside a police box somewhere. But now, with her own, she was reluctant. 

She was stuck in a most horrible crossroad.

He was the last of her family. She ought to keep him. It was simply logical. She had to. Yet, every other fibre of her being was rejecting the idea. No matter that the fact of the matter was that she had to keep him or her own family dies. 

I already took him in. I can’t give him away anymore. Her breathing quickened. I can’t care for him here! Lily had been a freak growing up. He will be too. I don't know how. _Her eyes prickled._ What will become of my normal life. What will the neighbours think. What about that law on secrecy Lily kept going on about. 

And she had heard the stories. So many of them. Of the Dark Lord. None of them painted sunshine and flowers. _Tears threatened to fall._

Her forehead met the wooden table in a quiet but harsh thump. 

_Even in death, she still haunts me._ She let out a choked sob. 

She will keep him. For their safety.

Vernon will not be happy about this.

_She bit her lip._

And wiped at her eyes.

For now, she will mix the formula and test the temperature and feed the boy. Change his diapers. Then back to the cupboard he will go along with a few more forgettable sheets. Perhaps she will put on a chicken for tonight’s dinner.

Then she’ll go about her normal routine for the day till Vernon returns.

Her last normal day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little sad that JKR didn't humanise Petunia but I do understand that it would likely have not meshed well at all with the story.


	4. Vernon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pleasant day not-so-pleasant night

Vernon pulled into the driveway, shifted the gear into place and cut the gas. It has been a long day but it had been one of the better days.

Everything had been normal today. 

Work was as usual. Bit better on his throat since unlike the day before, he had only needed to shout on the phone twice. Miscommunications were normal and so is frustration. He even got to treat himself to a warm and freshly-baked sticky bun today, the one he couldn't get yesterday as it had been sold out. A slice of joy in an otherwise gruelling day.

What’s more, there were no owls fluttering about. No strange old men in strange old cloaks. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. Not even a smidge. The day was normal and normal was good.

Petunia was there at the door when he opened it. She greeted him and relieved him of coat and case, storing them away diligently as she and any other normal wife of good standing should. And of course, not without a quick peck before pottering off with the luggage.

He hung his hat on the hook by the door and reached up to loosen his tie only to be hindered by the thick scarf around his neck. Right, almost forgot. Peeling both off, he made his way to his son. Which his Petunia had added a quick ‘living room’, her voice dulled by the plywood walls, absentmindedly whilst finagling with the hanger in the closet.

He walked in to see his pride and joy currently feasting on a toy in his little left hand and smooshing and squishing a rather battered looking stuffed alphabet cube into the plastic mat. His boy was really noshing on his toys judging by another two of them lying nearby with teeth marks all over the plastic.

_Kids._

Bright eyes looked up when the boy realised that there was another in the room. Dudley simply had the brightest and biggest little eyes and they were especially precious when they were looking up at Vernon and Vernon could only silently gloat at what a job well done he did to have such a wonderful wife and son. No matter if his Petunia had some unsavoury parts in her family.

He clenched his jaw to get the thought out of his mind. There was already too much unwanted reminders the day before. There was no need to upset himself remembering this sort of things.

And he could see the moment little gears starting to turn behind his sons eyes.

“…”

The loud wail was piercing as expected. _Strong lungs indeed_, he huffed exasperated.

He set about bouncing the boy on his hip and headed to the kitchen where Petunia was twisting and turning about settling the table. Slumping down at his usual seat he hushed at the boy as he took in the soft clatters of utensils on the table.

The boy had stopped crying quickly but Vernon continued to bounce his lovely boy. Soon enough though, he put the squirmy lump into the tall seat that Pet dragged over and the boy had no time to restart his waterworks as petunia put down the boy’s favourite plate filled with foods. Mashed potatoes and boiled carrots and a few strips of the chicken she roasted. 

Sure enough, his boy was prodding and poking at the bits of food that were on the plate and giggling happily as he sloppily licked the bits from his fingers.

Vernon watched on, and he could feel his cheeks cramping up from the wide smile that is no doubt plastered on his face. God, his son might be a rascal but the boy was his rascal. He saw, in the corner of his eye, his lovely Pet smile that demure grin that stretched her thin lips and eyes into half moons—the grin that he fell in love more every time he saw it. 

Be it may, that their marriage started out as one of convenience. It had been one of those situations where they were of marriageable age and were compatible just so and did not hate one another so they dated. Then when the time came and there hadn’t been any reason for him to not pop the question so he did as was normal. Then they married and he started realising just how _right_ his decision had been as he fell in love with her more and more and realised he had always loved her each day.__

And he loved her even more when she set down his plate. It looked delicious and his mouth watered when the scent of lemon spice wafted in his direction. There were even little roasted tomatoes by the side. _His favourite._

_ _“What’s the special occasion?” He asked as Petunia weaved herself behind his seat to get to her own. _ _

_ _She shook her head, face hiding behind the shadow of her hair, “Just wanted to treat you a little, is all.”_ _

_ _Her cooking was the best as far as he knew and that was enough for his good and normal sensibilities. And so together they dug in, a normal dinner as a normal family would._ _

_ _

_ _RBRBRBRB_ _

_ _

_ _Hours later, wrapped up in his dressing gown and flicking through the channels on the the telly, Petunia emerged, hair looking worse for wear from upstairs._ _

_ _“Little tyke innit.”_ _

Petunia smiled, a little one, a quick one, as she smoothed her hair and she moved to the kitchen. Vernon turned back to the telly, ignoring the soft clinks of ceramic against metal followed by splashes of water and no doubt soap. Back to his programme, a forgettable looking man with an obnoxious shout was advertising about some new brand of biscuits. It was a brand he thinks sounded familiar—ah! That's right, the ladies in the office were raving about them during tea. Maybe he'll pick some up from the super near his office tomorrow, Petunia might like some for tea. Spice things up a little. Bit of extra joy for her day. Something to look forwards to.

_ _It would double as an apology too, for upsetting her yesterday._ _

_ _Oh maybe he'll pick up some of those chocolates she likes as well while he's at it._ _

_ _Just then he was distracted from his planning by Petunia herself slumping down beside him. He felt her hand rest over his and he moved to grasp it, only to find cold glass pressing into his palm._ _

_ _He looked down._ _

A tumbler, of whiskey. Two fingers. On ice. His mind dumbly supplies. _Odd_. Usually she doesn't let him drink so early in the week. Not a drop, she would parrot every time he asked with a small slap on whichever hand was still reaching towards a bottle. He put the glass down, as tempting as it was. He was worried.

_ _"Pet, dear, what's wrong?" He turned, eyebrows furrowing._ _

_ _Her lips pressed themselves into a tight slit. Not good, somethings wrong. He's only ever seen her make that face less than a handful of times. All of which involved things along the lines of complete catastrophe. He held her hands, cupping them between his own and drawing little worry circles on her knuckles as he waited for her to respond. _ _

_ _Finally, after an excruciating minute, Petunia squeezed his hand back and muttered, her face contorting as if she was experiencing the pain of a hundred needles there and then._ _

_ _"It's my sister.”_ _

_ _“…”_ _

_ _Now he's really worried._ _

_ _Normally they pretended that Petunia didn't have a sister, so for her to willingly bring it up—_ _

_ _"She's, I-I, they died."_ _

_ _—oh. _ _

_ _He looked up at her quiet form before pulling her into a tight embrace, wordless. The forgotten telly played harsh thumping blares that drowned out the silence._ _

_ _It took a while—for he had to organise his thoughts—before he spoke up, _ _

_ _"It's- " he decided half way he didn't want to be so firm, "-is that not a good thing?" He wet his lips with what felt like sandpaper between his teeth. He could feel the hands that were slowly shifting up at his sides freeze. But he pressed on, "you're free, truly free from those freaks, love." I don't have to watch you suffer them anymore, he thought._ _

_He knows._ He knew the moment those words flew out of his mouth that was entirely inappropriate and definitely not normal, but, perhaps abnormal was what they really needed right now.

_ _Petite hands dug themselves into his dressing gown, judging by the tiny scratching sounds coming from behind him but he let himself be distracted by Petunia burrowing her head into his neck instead of worrying about the markings that would no doubt be left in the velvet robe._ _

_ _Her shoulders shook between him arms._ _

_ _A second later she stood up, wordlessly leading him out if the living room. At first he thought she was taking him upstairs for an early night and so was confused when she stopped stock still at the side of the stairs._ _

And just as suddenly as she stopped, she turned to face the tiny door and her hand shot out at the knob. For some reason unbeknownst to Vernon, Petunia held her hand there for an inordinate amount of time. Enough that a small part of him was starting get impatient. He almost wanted to snatch the knob and tear the door open himself. But he waited, because for some inexplicable reason, this moment felt important, sacred, _sacrilegious_ even. So he waited, heart pounding.

_ _Finally she opened the door. It swung outwards slowly with a creak, a sinister one that made both his palms clammy. He peeked into the dark and cramp space, which seemed to be filled with bundles of cloths strewn about carelessly, vaguely reminding him of a molehill. He heaved a sigh of relief, feeling foolish for having feared something along the lines of the worst. He snuck a glance at Petunia but he couldn't see her expression as she turned away from him. He grabbed about for a string he knows is there but can't see. Ah-hah! Found it. The harsh yellow light popped on, blinding him. Petunia made a whimpering sound around the same time he stepped back, fingers soothing his eyes._ _

_ _Blinking away little spots, he took a closer look at the pile with which the center had a hole where—a face—a face was peeking out._ _

_ _Startled, he turned to face his wife whom had simply shoved a bit of paper onto him whilst pulling him to the kitchen. She left him in the door way as she went in to fiddle with cups. He took it as her cue for him to sit and read._ _

_ _When he was done, she was sat sipping at one of the two glasses on the table, one no doubt collected from the living room._ _

_ _“I found him frozen stiff outside our door this morning.” she said quickly, cutting off that he was about to say._ _

_ _He mulled over it for a little. Then he decided._ _

_ _“Petunia,” he began slowly, grasping her hand in his, “I don't really understand what’s going on fully,” his thumb swirling little circles again like before, “but we can get through this together.”_ _

_ _“It’s about the boy isn’t it… the boy, Harry, your-I-our nephew…” he kept stumbling._ _

_ _Then he just decided._ _

_ _“We’ll get through this together.”_ _

_ _The two spent the night simply in the comfort of each other. The only things on Vernon's mind was to take the day off tomorrow tend to the boy and his beloved Petunia._ _


	5. Hospital trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Panic attack.

The boy, his nephew—somehow the word didn’t sit well on his tongue—he did not fuss. The boy did not cry and the boy did not scream. He didn’t even stir that morning. Maybe he was just quiet. A calm boy maybe. No matter, easier for the both of them that he didn’t demand attention.

But even when it was time for his meal, Petunia with a full bottle of milk, even when the rubber teat was pressed into the little mouth, the boy was still and made no move to suckle.

Hot. The boy burned in her touch when she made to wipe down the spilled droplets of milk.

“Vernon!” She exclaimed, voice wavering frantically.

They tried everything short of putting the boy in a basin of ice. Yet, the boy’s fever still burned and he wouldn’t stir. Begrudgingly, a harried Vernon drove off with the boy, Petunia’s many reassurances that she would be fine and a pack full of stuffs shoved in the backseat, down to Crawley.

As Vernon made yet another turn in the winding roads of the countryside, a niggling thought kept popping up again and again.

Dropping the boy off somewhere would be _so easy_. Just telling Pet that the doctors weren’t able to save the boy would be enough to dissuade his wife from worrying too much about the details. But every time he looked towards the wicker basket Petunia said the boy came with, the thought was wiped away from his mind and a renewed vigour to care for the child emerged. He’s just a boy, he thought guiltily, convincing himself that it was his conscience. 

Even if it is _that man’s_ boy.

He sighed. The journey south was long and clouds were starting to gather.

RBRBRBRB

When Harry woke, it was to sounds bustling movement around him. He laid still, bright lights assaulting his eyelids, took in as much as he could of his surroundings. For a moment the hard bed reminded him of Hogwart's medical bed but the strong smell of antiseptics and alcohols told him otherwise. He subtly flexed his thumb, feeling the roughness of the blanket on him, before cracking open an eye. He took a blurry look around but gave up quickly after realising the sterile curtains was screening off anything of note. Soft beeps coming from elsewhere however told him it was probably a muggle hospital. Though why and how he got here was a mystery. 

Faintly, he realised that he had started to cry and the curtain was opened swiftly. It was a nurse that had entered but his attention was directed to a sitting Vernon. The man had risen from his chair and was currently conversing with the nurse as she fiddled with something small and black on her waist. It was when a doctor came that Harry understood it was probably a pager. 

The doctor picked him up gently and laid him back the bed once he was deemed sufficiently calm, Harry supposed. 

That was quick, Harry thought. But indeed, the crying had stopped.

Would have been helpful a few years back. Lily was—had been—a crier.

A bright light was flashed in his face, cutting his thought short and fingers prodded at his face. Then it was gone and the nurse’s hands replaced the doctor’s tucking him in as he watched Vernon converse animatedly with the doctor. 

Harry was stunned. He could also feel a headache coming on at the dissonance between this Vernon and the uncle Vernon he knew. He shut his brain down and imagined drowning in builder's tea and perhaps something else stronger for the rest of the day, ignoring any sensations as little him did his thing of drifting in and out of sleep between nurse checkups. 

It was when he was tucked into the back of the car, safely in the cradle, that he switched back on and watched as Vernon finished tidying a bag of prescriptions he had in his hand. His green eyes followed, trained on the man as he sunk heavily into the driver's seat. Harry's stares would have bored holes through Vernon's skull throughout the car ride if not for the awkward angle in the way his cradle was put. It forced him to only be able to steal glances at the front. It was tiring and annoying so he spent the duration of the car ride staring blankly out the window as the sights moved by. 

All the while, a subtle tingling seemed to be wrapped around him. It made him feel calm and relaxed, uncomfortably so. It reminded him of his time with Moody, well Crouch more like. But with his mind all over the place at the moment, it wasn’t unwelcome. 

Dumbledore.

No doubt it was that lemon drop addict’s wonderful idea to doctor the cradle but he was too relaxed to fume about it. No matter, just another item to add to the old goat’s list of Sins against Harry Potter. He should write a book. It’ll be fun. Pass the time too. Just need to learn how to write all over again, he groaned. 

Well, it wouldn’t actually be him learning. It would be little Harry. Very convenient. But to be honest, was starting to be confusing, even for himself.

I did learn about my real name, when I made amends with the Goblins. And wasn’t that a surprise. Harry wasn’t even his real name. Just a nickname. Hadrian was the name his was given and he never knew. It had hit him then how little he knew about anything at all. And not just Wizarding customs.

After that he strived to learn. To understand the culture he grown and lived in properly to stop feeling like a tourist in his own home. Then again, my need to know had become my downfall, hadn’t it. He groused.

The car door snapped open.

Before he had realised, they had already pulled into the dark driveway of number four and his cradle had been unloaded and passed to a waiting Petunia. 

He stared bug-eyed at them as they spoke about something he couldn't care less about. Before his eyes, Petunia and Vernon Dursley. They were just so other. And familiar, at the same time.

Light blonde hair, for starters was completely unlike the dark hair the Aunt Petunia he knew sported. She wasn't sallow either. In fact she looked sturdy, just on the lean side.

Vernon too, he noticed with the thick coat off, wasn't the whale of a man in his memories. The man was simply chubby with hair that hadn't seen a single day of white.

Standing side by side, they were almost unrecognisable. 

“…uhwaAHH!” 

Little Harry suddenly wailed.

Dread pooled in his stomach and his throat dried up. Instinctually, he braced himself. Only for little Harry to yell again. He felt like a ball of rubber bands, wound up so tight, waiting for something—anything—to happen.

But nothing did.

Instead, only a sigh was heard and he was picked up and bounced on a thin arm. 

Huh.

What—

“Mama?” A watery voice came from him

Before he realised he was being shoved into another pair of arms. 

He could hear Vernon hushing him softly and petting him slowly as he climbed upstairs. Harry stopped thinking. He simply watched limply through the soggy veil at the foreign and unsettling sight of Vernon soothing him to calm.

He felt nauseous. 

But his throat closed up as if they were swollen. He could feel his heart clench up. His lungs stopped drawing air. His head started to buzz. His ears rang. He—

—I-I—

—can’t-t—

“-r…”

—breathe—

“-er…”

—I can’t—

“MASTER!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took a while because I was busy but I pushed one out because lockdown sucks. Hope you enjoyed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's panic attack.
> 
> Also.
> 
> In which Death figures out why his master isn't in Ravenclaw.
> 
> Read the notes. Please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: descriptions of panic attack and auditory hallucinations.

"Master."

Green met pitch black.

His mind blanked though his body lagged. Still powerfully chugging in fervent bursts. In. Out. Out. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out. 

But eventually, the violent breaths slowed to nothing. For the body, it remembered. It understood. That there was no need for struggle, in the face of-

"-mor—." He choked out.

Slowly his breath returned. 

"Yes, master"

Harry heard. He also sensed a strange sort of pressure tentatively pushing down on his cheeks and ears. A warm sort of pressure. His vision felt clouded, as if his glasses misted over like when the seasons changed. The black orbs he stared into swirled with the pale skin into a grey of sorts. His eyes slid off them and he was blasted with thoughts that crashed into him harder and faster than a tsunami.

_Harry potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... Ha... Harry... Pot... har... potter... Potter... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry potter... Why did you let us die... Potter... Potter... Harry... Ha... Harry... Pot... har... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Save me... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... Harry... Ha... Harry... Pot... har... Harry... Harry... Harry... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Save me... Harry potter... Why didn't you save us... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry... Murderer... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Save me... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry... Ha... Harry... Pot... har... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... potter... Potter... You killed us... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Ha... Harry... Pot... har... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... potter... Potter... You left us for dead... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... potter... Potter... It wasn't enough... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry potter... Ha... Harry... Pot... har... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... I died because of you... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter...Harry... potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Ha... Harry... Pot... har... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry potter... Why did you let us die... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... I died... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Ha... Harry... Pot... har... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Save me... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... You should have done more... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... You didn't do enough... Harry potter... Harry... Harry potter... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry...You killed us... Harry Potter... You murderer... MurdeRER... MURDERER... HARRY POTTER!_

The cacophony of hollars came from everywhere. _Harry..._ Voices, so many voices, so many voices of the dead shouting at him in varying degrees malice and hurt. _Potter!_ It cut deep as they seem to attack from every direction he could think of and when he dared unscrew his knotted features, he saw all of them, all of their faces. _Harry... Harry... Harry... So many dead faces._

_Come, Potter..._

And their hands, wretched and rotting like the inferi, grabbed and scratched at him, trying to drag him away. _Harry..._

_Harry... Harry... Harry..._

No, don't touch me.

_Ha... Harry... Pot... har..._

Their touch burned him, branding cold hand prints all over him as they pulled with the intent of splitting him into a million pieces.

Get away.

_Pott... Harry... Harry... Potter... Potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Save me... Harry potter... Why didn't you save us... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... Harry... potter... Potter... Harry... Harry... Harry... Harry potter... _

He twitched and twisted and turned, trying to get out from whatever he was pinned down under.

Yet, he couldnt.

_...er... pott..._

He simply wasn't strong enough.

Spells rolled off his tongue rapidly as he waved his arm around in practiced strokes frantically.

I need to go. Ineedtogo. _I need to go._

Nothing worked. Why is nothing working? I need to go. I—

_POTTER—_

The thoughts were gone.

He stared into black. Again.

Everything had been ripped away, faster than heartbeat. So violently, Harry felt the whiplash. Like a muggle hoover sucking out all the air in his lungs and then some.

This time the black eyes were closer, much closer, nose to nose, brow to brow.

Harry was stuck.

Stuck in two sticky tar pits, deeper and darker than the black lake.

Time passed, how much exactly, is, unknown. Time is hard to measure when nothing else mattered but the calm. The feeling of inexistence. 

No more thoughts.

No more sounds.

No more faces.

Just peace.

The man-turned-child's mouth simply hung open. It stayed in the same place it stopped in. Jittering in place when muscles twitched in incomplete words. 

Lazy thoughts floated by dully. Following them, a sense of alarm that was muffled thickly by layers upon layers of cotton.

What happened just now. 

What's going on now. 

Petunia is... And Vernon... 

I don't understand. 

It'd be nice to know what's going on. 

Need to know.

_Yes._ It would be good to know. 

Need to know?

i… think…

He remained lost.

"Mine poor master." 

Harry heard. Again, he thinks.

And he felt a warm pressure he didn't realise was on his left cheek disappear. Is his training already leaving him? Then darkness bringing back with it warmth on his eyes. 

Slowly he started to make out the pads and segments of fingers on his cheek. Then the roughness of the skin and calluses touching his eyelids.

"Mort."

"Yes, master?"

"..."

Harry let the silence hang thickly as he breathed in and out and in again. Slowly. Ever so slightly. Returning.

Gradually he regained his senses.

The hand—his own, still weird, still dissonant to know—remained cupped over his face. The feeling of soft fabric on his skin. Stiff hardness supporting his head and pinning him in place to softer, yet equally stiff muscles. Vernon, it must be. But why is he not—

Mort's warm hand lifted off his face and he squinted in the newfound brightness. He automatically took stock of everything around him.

He blinked. 

Everything was still. _Like the last time._ Just there was less green lights and rubble and dead people. There was a small clock stopped at about six forty-seven, pm judging by the sky outside the window.

He turned back to Mort, whom was the same as always.

Squinting at him, he questioned.

"Did you look again?"

"No."

It didn't sound truthful.

Death would never visit without a reason. Certainly not two nights in a row. 

“_Mort._" He ground out, teeth jabbing painfully on bare gum. He hissed.

"Yes, master I did" Death answered, wincing for him.

Harry huffed, unable to keep from glaring.

"I skimmed your emotions, unintentionally. We are... connected, you see, one and the same.”

That’s new, Harry thought, nose twitching in beginnings of a snarl as an inexplicable rage whirled like a hurricane from his chest to his throat.

"What _else_ are you not telling me, Mort.” He spat.

"Only what is unnecessary right now."

Harry's nose flared, _so basically everything then._

"Death!"

"I'm afraid I can't, master. Fate."

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Bloody fate. Always buggering around with him. Fucking him up like he's a dementor's fucking chew toy. Then he looked at Death, and shook his head. No point taking his anger out him for the sake of it.

"We are not done. Understood?”

Death's eyes widened as he blinked owlishly. 

He bowed slowly, hand over heart and all. He then moved closer and picked Harry out cleanly from frozen arms.

"Thank you, master"

Harry huffed. But he did have more questions for the entity.

“Why are you even here? It’s not like I was even dying. At least, I don't think I was?" Highly doubt the doctor would have let him out if he weren't okay at the very least. 

“You weren’t.” Death paused as if thinking about whether or not to say it aloud. Was it one of those he can’t say, Harry wonders. It could also have been for dramatic effect, who knows.

“Master, you were in a precarious state. I managed to arrive on time.”

Death pointed to a few things in the room that had just started to rise and were just ever so slightly lifted at the edges.

_Huh._ Yeah that definitely wouldn't have gone well. Any kindness the Dursley's have shown would definitely be swept out the carpet and into the cupboard he would go.

Death made a noise and hugged Harry close. He stroked his head and slowly rocked, repeating over and over again "Mine poor master"

When the being didn’t let up, Harry struggled, complaining,

“Mort! Just because I look like a baby doesn’t mean you can treat me like one.”

“Mort”

“Please.”

“Stop it.”

“Urkhem” the being straightened himself before clearing his throat again.

“Yes, master. Since I am here, I've also taken the liberty to check on the souls.”

“Right, so how are they?”

“The souls merging had been unstable. I suspect the foul shard had a hand in that.”

Harry watched amusedly as Mort twisted his face in a way reminiscent of when he smelt the stinksap from Neville's plant.

“Oh yeah, I-uh forgot about that.”

Death's face of disgust intensified. Harry just barely held in a snort.

“Master, pray tell how could you forget that thing most foul. Its stench is clouding up the space.”

“Souls have smells?" Now _that's_ interesting.

"Do I smell? What do I smell like. No, actually, don't—don't answer that.” 

Harry took a moment to compose himself.

“You forget I lived with it in my head for almost two decades.” He said, cocking his head to the right.

“Even if it stunk, I would have long gotten to it." Mort made another face at that. 

Then it occured to him.

"Can I even smell souls?”

He saw Mort's face stiffen to stone. He watched as every semblance of playful gagging the man was imitating wipe clean in a single blink of an eye.

“I’m afraid I cannot answer that.” 

A small spark of annoyance returned and Harry fought to temper it.

“What can you answer then.”

“Only what is necessary.”

“That’s not much for me to go on, Mort.” He furrowed his brow.

“Master, master, master, you forget you are mine Master.

Harry cocked his head to the left. Then, his eyes widened.

“Mort, I command you.”

The entity smiled, grin splitting into dripping crescents on the borrowed face.

“Tell me everything.”

“Yes, Master.”


	7. A talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What death is.

"What do you want to know, mine master?" Mort, ever so dramatic, gave a mock bow.

"Everything." His mouth twitched.

"Master, pray, could you be more specific?"

Harry gave his brightest shit eating grin.

"No."

The poor personification sighed. 

After a somewhat lengthy pause, Harry started feeling distracted. He looked around the room. On this second pass of his, he was surprised to see that this was the nursery. Though it was surprisingly bare for one. _Well, not really if you counted the toys._ But it only contained a scant amount of furniture. A baby cot, a play pen, a couple of drawers and shelves scattered here and there. Why, if it weren't for the toy strewn everywhere and the lack of dust, he wouldn't have thought the room was in use.

Scratch that, there were just a line of dust behind the door by the frame. He spotted it easily, a skill he developed early on and just never left. Hah, clearly Petunia didn't have the keen eye of this veteran in cleaning, he gloated—before realising she was the one who taught him that. He grimaced. _Maybe not._

"Perhaps, it will be a good to start with what being the Master of me entails." Death finally spoke.

Harry perked up at that, intrigued. It would definitely be useful. But.

He hummed.

There were other things that were of more import as of right now. Simply due to the fact that there were too many things he _just _doesn't know, Harry thought as he processed the entire day he had. 

He must have been thinking for longer than he thought, since he was startled out of breath by a poke between his brows from Mort. 

"Still not a baby," he snapped weakly, grabbing clumsily the finger with his tiny hands.

The sweeping look and raised eyebrow Mort gave made him bite his tongue. With, mind you, _lots_ of irritation.

"How long do we have here? I have lots to ask."

Now, it was Mort's turn to smile. 

"Why, my master, we have all the time we would ever need since,"

Somehow the smile remained as off putting as it did before he assumed Harry's form. 

"Time–"

Maybe it was the lack of unevenness, a crescent so symmetrical it was unnerving. 

"–is under our domain."

Or maybe it was the odd stretches making the corners of the mouth look perfectly wrong.

  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


  


"WHAT?!" Harry bellowed, bewildered.

"Master, time is-"

"Yes, I heard that the first time." Harry grabbed the hand that was trying to prod his cheeks again.

"What do you mean that time is under our domain?! Explain that!"

Mort moved his palm tour guide style, gesturing around the room.

"As you can see master, everything around is frozen in time. But since _you_ are my Master, only you and I can exist out of it.

Harry's confusion must have shown on his face because Mort stopped and bit his tongue, looking like he was in deep thought.

"I will put it this way, master," Mort started. "Time is a dimension much like the other dimensions that human scientists theorise." 

Harry nodded, an uneven side to side motion, remembering his time in primary and the sparse occasions he decided to read some muggle publications. 

"When time is moving linearly, it allows things move and interact as they should and for the interactions to be observable." He flicks a floating crayon, making spin on the spot. "From a person's movement to the movement of light particles. Things move as they are meant to. But when time stops-" he taps the crayon, ceasing its spin and delicately nudging it back to where it was before. "-these movements cease to be observable. Because the medium, this dimension—time—has stopped, disallowing these atoms to move and interact. Everything freezes." Mort looks at him expectantly. Harry doesn't know how to react to what he had just heard and seen. 

"I don't get how this relates to us being able to be outside of it." He manages weakly.

"Death occurs even when nothing in the universe can interact. In every split second, life is being liberated from its vessel. Be it cells, animals, or stars decaying, from the loss of existence to the loss of life, when atoms change, that is Death. Death of the prior. Therefore we can exist outside of time. Because death is definite, above all else.

Mort stopped in his tracks. And Harry realised they've being pacing without his knowledge, he doesn't like how unaware he is recently.

"I still don't get how it relates to having dominion over time. And since when did science turn into philosophy?"

Harry tried hard to not laugh like the child he is at the myriad of faces Mort made in response. He was just about to succeed when Mort decided on a professional 'I give up' look.

He watched as Mort shook his head between squinting eyes as he giggled.

"Every spilt faction of time exists death. And with time things cease to exist. Dying is just another term to it. Time cannot stop death because death owns it as it does all things that can die. And time can, as it will one day collapse as with the universe as death is the only true constant."

"Yeah I don't think I'll ever get it. The more you try the more complicated it just seems to get."

From behind pursed lips, a narked noise leaked. Harry really tried to not laugh this time. Then something occured to him.

"Hey, does it mean I'm immortal now?"

Mort huffed, "Yes, master."

Harry brightened up. That mean Mort-

"You're stuck with me aren't you."

An evil grin blossomed on Harry's face. 

The noise Mort made could put an elephant playing a shiny new trumpet, to shame.

Harry giggled. 

"You are! This is brilliant."

He was elated, so much so he he couldn't help but clap his hands together, like the child he never was, getting a shiny new toy he never did. It was exhilarating almost as much as being on a broom, not the toy one mind you but his cherished firebolt.

"Of all things master, you latch onto _that_."

Harry could only laugh harder.

Finally Mort cracked and they were just laughing like loons with abandon.

  


* * *

  


When they finally did calm down, Harry found himself snug in the crook of Mort's neck, cheek pressing down on the soft fabric of the invisibility cloak. His fingers were twisted in them feeling the minute bumps and smooths of the threads in the weave. A question popped into his head.

"What of the hallows, Mort."

He leaned into the pale collar bone.

"Dumbledore has my cloak and the wand and the stone is in the shack. Harry took in a breath."

Mort looked pensive. 

"Worry not, mine master. _We_ exist outside of time, remember? The hallows are, has been and always will be united and there can only be one Master of Death. 

"Little me?"

"Mortal."

"Good." Little Harry didn't need anymore surprises in his new life.

Harry's head plunked back onto Mort's shoulder. Enjoying the warmth. Mort squeezed him tight and he found he didn't mind it as much as before, this contact. It was soothing, the subtle sway that Mort still held. Only imperceptible in his human form.

It was when his eyes snapped opened at a crinkling sound that he even knew his eyes were closed. His head felt foggy. I fell asleep. He thought clearing his throat to hide the flushing of his cheeks. Hopefully his face wasn't red.

"You can sleep more if you wish, master."

Mort's voice was quiet, lacking in the various off kilter hisses that usually accompanied it.

Hmm...

The idea rolled around in his head lazily.

"No, let's continue our talk."

"Very well, master."

And so they continued.


	8. The dust ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry explores his new powers.

That night, Harry laid in a makeshift bed that consisted of a playpen stuffed full of pillows and blankets. He thought over what had happened over the last hour. How Petunia and Vernon both fussed over both Dudley _and_ him and how they were _actually_ taking the care of him. How _good_ an effort they were making as well. Or, at least, as well as they could be on such short notice. It wrung in him the wrong way, the image of them fretting over him, like a dry rag being twisted over and over for water.

Merlin was he grateful though, that he didn't have to share a bed with Dudley. The boy was already large. Worryingly so. From what he saw, the crib would have probably been a tight squeeze.

His brow furrowed itself now, mind busy going over what Mort had covered. It had taken days, he thinks, in that odd space. Where, nothing seems to be able to move yet the objects around them were still manipulable. He hadn't noticed it before, but while time had indeed stood still in that place, he still felt the passage of time. _Weird._

Apparently, there were many perks to being Death's master besides not staying dead properly. Perks like a magical boost, a stronger mind and uh, the same or higherauthorityovereveryotherprimordialconstantthatexists—to which Harry balked at idea of Fate having a greater influence on_ Death._

"She's a religion, she doesn't _count._" Mort had gritted out, seemingly frustrated by the fact, as he does every time Fate is mentioned. And judging by what she had planned for him in the past? Future? She wasn't exactly scoring high in his books.

Upon hearing that, though, Harry shook his head. A bit too vigorously and accidentally made the room spin when he tried to look at it. He took a moment, to clear the self-inflicted dizziness. All the while Mort looked in his direction as he dizzied himself. Finally, he was able to blurt out a fantastically intelligent response.

"I-gk-uh wha-huh?"

Long story short, because dear Mort just had that insatiable urge to be dramatic, Harry is beginning to realise, with the number of circles and the lengths the entity went to to explain the simple concept of 'human beliefs gave form and then powers to a concept'. 

He said as much and then some which earned him an amusing reaction from Mort and an 'if you must, master'.

Harry snorted.

Back. To. The. Point. On. Hand. An interesting tidbit he got from him was that as the Master of Death, he ought to be able to manipulate any and all dead things, however, wherever and whenever he wanted. Although, he did add that for now in his limited form, his own would be the easiest. 

Harry was excited to test this out. It would serve as a lovely distraction during the boring times. He does remember years worth of time locked in his cupboard after all.

He stared at his hands, noting how they were bigger, more familiar, his nice and scarred adult ones. He felt comforted by them, and by the fact that in his head he still sees himself in that way, in that image. 

Little Harry was sleeping now, making the act of taking over easier than noxing a lumos.

All it took was a little concentration. He focused on the feeling of opening his eyes, blinking as he did. He tried until the image before him changed from his scar ridden hands to the white ceiling of the Dursley's nursery. He stared, hypnotised by the slow turning of the ceiling fan and was almost tempted to be lulled back to sleep by the motion. But, his curiosity won the battle.

If he was excited before, he was positively itching now to test out this power of his. Seeing as Mort said that it'll be _instinctual_ and _easy_. Harry was planning on holding him to his words, wandless as he is.

  


* * *

  


Magic is a fickle thing.

Over the years he learnt that well enough. He also figured out that magic needed a strong image for him to be able to effectively exert his will upon it while guiding his magic with the correct motions. 

In his mind's eye, he saw tiny flakes of skin. Dead skin cells, a tidbit from classes decades ago. He only remembered because he did frankly enjoy those lessons whenever Dudley wasn't messing up his worksheets. He imagined them flaking off his skin, falling gently like microscopic snowflakes being blown about by even the slightest of air currents.  
He conjured the image of pulling many of them from all corners of the room together forming a ball. When the image became clearer, he plunged. 

Skiming his fingers on the surface of his core, he drew on his magic. It was a gradual motion of dipping his fingers deeper, pouring more and more magic, pure magic into the mental image. 

It was when he was elbow deep in his core that he felt a change. Raw power shifted out like little streams of water, leaving his body. Then it was as if the right key had clicked into place, for the dam slammed open. His magic spilled forth. Harry’s eyes slipped open to see a tiny ball of dust coalescing before him. Small wisps of dust motes flowing like delicate threads, a shining sliver in the moonlight as they danced to a creeping rhythm on their way to join the budding collection. 

The same hand in his core was stretched out. With every twitch of his tiny fingers, the strings twitched in time. They pulled taut when he clenched his fist and loosened when he loosened.

It was mesmerising. 

It was also the first time Harry ever saw his magic being this calm. Before, the words he would use to describe it would have been somewhere along the lines of reliable, eager and or prickly. Even on good days he would have to temper down the urge to cast. Antsy. Never calm, never serene or any other such derivatives.

Always on alert.

Waiting.

Waiting for the chance to jump free.

Having, at times, a mind of its own.

Now, it was smoother than the finest Acromantula silks, flowed better than a day under Felicis. Most of all, soothed him.

It was something new again. There was a strange sense of safety in the way his magic flowed. It comforted him. Funnily enough, he was reminded of the rich velvet linings in the empty coffin he had buried for Sirius after the war was over. He remembered running his fingers over the material over and over. He had to be pried away from it when the time came for it to be buried. No one had stopped him then. Perhaps they thought his fascination had been grief. 

Harry snorted. 

It hasn't been anything other than pure interest in the dark fabric. 

He does remember his nose souring though. Apart from that, the whole day after had been a blur entirely.

Looking back towards the ball, it had become substantial. A curl of his index was all it took to bring it to his hand and the tiny palm closed around the marble sized dust ball. Closely, he examined the little lump of dead things.

Then ripped it away from his face.

His face screwed up and his eyes and nose watered from the sheer force of it.

_Eww_, Harry blanched. 

The bits of dead cells in his hands were disgusting, hairs from who knows where stuck onto it, attached to tiny pieces of guess what—yup, dead skin.

He flung it. The lump barely made it over the edge of the playpen and it fell to the floor with an almost weightless quality.

Wiping his hand on his vest, Harry let his head fall back and loosened his hold on his core gently. That was enough playing around for today. Moving at the pace of a snail, he drew his arm out. Relishing in the sensations his new magic gave as it ebbed around his arm. First the bicep was free, then to the elbow.

By the time he reached his wrist, his senses had begun flickering again. The feeling of eyes drooping that were not entirely his own was however, overshadowed by the aura that washed over him, sending shivers down to the very bones of his incorporeal body.

A shadowed _thing_ was opposite him, just hidden away from view. A familiar sight. Red and grisly.

The horcrux. 

How could he have forgotten.


	9. The Horcrux

There it was, hiding behind the glow of his core. A parasitic growth, grotesquely pulsing on the side. Latched on what was no doubt little Harry's magical core. It hung off it like a cancerous cell. A blemish on the otherwise glowing lights of the young core. 

This _thing._

This horcrux didn't look exactly like the mangled infant he once saw, on the floor of King’s Cross—the one he left for death. This one was cocooned in a bubble of black swirls that oozed wrongness.

Harry eyed the growth. Then back at his fingertips that were almost free from the core.

Hmm.

He used it as traction, pushing forwards to reach towards it. Maybe he could to sever the the two and the bloody thing would die without any magic providing for it.

He grabbed it and ripped. Surprisingly it worked, the growth looked to be detaching. He pulled harder. When the whole of it split from his glowing core, he gave a small whoop.

Then screamed.

The horcrux it latched onto _him_. 

He grunted at feeling of magic being directed to his right hand. Oh. It was draining magic from him.

He tried to pull the growth off with his other hand only to find that he was shoulder deep in the core. Stuck.

Oh fuck.

It's-

It's using me as a power line. Harry’s face cramped at the grimace he made. 

Before, it probably might have been unable to draw magic directly from the core, only siphoning whatever excess slipped through to sustain itself. Then I came along and became its easy and unfiltered source because I was still drawing power from mine. 

Merlin's nuts toasted over the floo network. How do I always get myself into these situations.

Then the glob of yuck started to twist and shift. And Harry yelled, again. His hand jerked around violently, a futile attempt to fling the thing off. 

He yelled again, horrified, when he saw that all it did was make the growth migrate up his arm. Wrapping tighter than before. It was at his elbow now and honestly way too close to his face for his liking.

The shifting became erratic. Warping drastically in size and shape. It pulsed off-rhythmically. Sharp peaks and sudden sinks. Like a seizing heart. It only grew wilder with each pulse. Soon it was stretching larger than harry himself. It split. Stands of the dark magic latched onto Harry as the thing within freed itself from the gooey trap. It was white, glowing round, almost like a small moon compared to the core. It simply lingered in place as he continued to struggle with the magic swirls crawling ominously up his arm. 

Is it trying to _consume_ me?

But the moment they touched the invisibility cloak it vanished with a high pitched scream.

Wha‐ Harry blinked owlishly, confused.

"_Oooooooookay?_"

He wasn't going to question it now. What looks like a curse, acts like a curse and even feels like a curse cannot be anything other than a curse. Also he'll ask Mort about the cloak the next time he pops up.

Eyeing his core quickly, he concluded that there had been no damage done and so went on extracting himself out from it. Quickly this time. Taking a second to make sure he was completely removed, he immediately surveyed little Harry’s core. He hadn’t realised it was there until he noticed the horcrux. The core didn’t look as if it had any problem. Though now he noted the thin flim wrapped delicately all around it. _Lily's sacrifice._ Of course. It was most likely the only thing that kept the horcrux from breaching the tender core and decimating it—killing him—and gaining power. Now, it has gotten its fill of power from an unbridled source.

_Fun._

He circled it cautiously, not wanting to make the mistake of recklessly touching it again. It didn’t look any different no matter which angle he viewed it from. Despite himself, he was already almost tempted to poke at it just to see if it would react.

Right before he did, something soft sounded out.

Harry stayed quiet.

Another one came and Harry was surprised how much it carried.

A cry, of sorts. 

It was low yet also high, it was smooth yet carried a hint of roughness in it. It was rich yet wispy. It was almost a moan but also wasn't. A voice full of contradictions.

What was most contradicting was what the voice said.

“What have I done?”

Amused frustration was what Harry heard. How maddeningly contradicting.

And so very different to the Tom and Voldemort he knew.

He watched the orb intently as it began unraveling itself, dim light peeling back into a distinct figure. Like a ghost. Translucently curled in place. He watched as the horcrux slowly figured out what it had done exactly and listened to its mutterings. Harry found it funny how it still hadn’t seemed to have noticed him even though he was so close to it, merely a few steps behind him. He scratched his nose only to find his hand was invisible. Huh, it seems his cloak turned invisible simply by his will, though he didn’t think his small panic at being seen was enough to activate it.

Clearly it was.

He thought about being visible again and was quietly delighted when he could see his hand again. Another thought was all it took for the cloak to pool fully around him. It hid his bare toes well.

Satisfied, he wore the newly-thought hood and the sound of the shifting fabrics tattled on his presence. The horcrux whipped around glaring at him with familiar ferocity. Fairly impressive for something that had been so occupied with side-eyeing his cores. 

"_Who are you._"

Harsh yet hesitant. Perched perfectly on the line between inquisitive and demanding. It was nothing like the Voldemort he knew.

Harry smiled. A terse tug on the cheeks that sored quickly. He knows his eyes can't be seen.

It was a contest of glares... for a time. Harry’s mind wandering as his gaze flickered about distracted. The all mighty Dark Lord looking rather pinched with each passing second.

Harry decided right then that he wants keep the horcrux guessing. Mess with it a little. He is more powerful than a fraction after all. Also it was wiser to hide. Wiser keep his cards closed and out of the equation. 

But mostly because it stirred a dark sort of satisfaction in him to watch the poor thing flail.

Heh dark.

Although he supposes the thing _was_ older than him.

Oh Merlin, he looks as if he's about to pop.

So Harry raised his arms slowly and jerkily, allowing them to emerge from the generous folds of his cloak. A showman's pose. Left palm pressed to heart and right stretched out. He pulled the corners of his mouth wider. Everything he wouldn't have normally done, he did.

"Why," he said coyly, "don't you guess."

"Reveal yourself!" The horcrux raged.

Harry, for some inexplicable reason, had the urge to snort. He didn't know exactly why. All he knew were the fingers he pressed on his face to stop it.

"Tsk tsk." He tutted. "Temper temper. So demanding."

His mouth sounded. Ah. That's why. 

He shook his head, mock sadly. 

"That's not how it works Tom."

He snuck a look at him. The horcux looked as if he was about to have a conniption. Absolutely gobsmacked. It looked funny on a face as old as this one was. 

He studied the face before him. _Around his fifties, probably_ Harry gauges. It was probably what the man himself would have looked like had he not gone and ripped his soul up so much. Pity. From one bloke to another, he was handsome and aged rather well.

Harry continued on that thought since the man before him seemed to still be in his own little world of something between a mix horror and terror to say much of anything. 

He almost misses the moment when the soul bit did decide to speak up again. In fact, he missed quite a few the words, but it wasn't entirely his fault since the horcrux was mumbling badly when he decided to speak. 

"Are you not going to answer?"

Clearly he missed a question.

He tilted his head.

"Say it again and maybe I will."

Harry was actually impressed by how calm he sounded. Usually his public role as the savior is supplemented by nerves—or temper spells, he'll admit that—even if they were tête-à-tête. Though that could be because he can trust the Dark Lord to be straightforward about wanting him dead. Unlike some people. _Stop it._ Although calm may have been an exaggeration if the look on Voldemort's face was anything to go by. Sufficiently threatened was scribbled all over it. A bit like freshie Auror cadets, those that have only heard of his youthful exploits from their mates.

Oh, now he looked irritated.

"How. Do. You. Know. _That name!_

"What name?" Might as well rile him up more.

"Tom?" A tilt of his head.

He could see voldemort gritting his teeth. Perhaps he thinks he was being subtle but the twitches on the muscles of his jaw painted a lovely picture.

"Yes."

Now that just sounded constipated.

"Hm hm hm, I know many names, it is just a thing I know. Perhaps you would prefer Riddle." Harry said, knowing full well the answer. 

Anger boiled over the man—who defenestrated the very notion of hiding his emotions. _Best to stop playing with flames_, Harry thought. So he quiets himself and lets the horcrux stew. He must be well and truly mad to be more interested in a name than a place at this moment. 

No matter.

Harry'll see.

He has a ton of time, regardless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had some trouble writing this one. Fouth draft and still a little iffy. Hopefully things were conveyed well ( >m<)

**Author's Note:**

> Feed me comments. I love them. They make my day and help me to improve <3


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